Doctor-Patient Privilege
by Calico
Summary: An alternate reality fiction. Dr. Lecter was never sent to prison and Clarice Starling must question him about a patient.


Title: "Doctor-Patient Privilege"  
  
Author: Calico calico321@yahoo.com  
  
Rating: PG  
  
Summary: An alternate reality fiction. Will Graham did not survive Hannibal Lecter's attack, and as a result the doctor was never captured and is still a successful, practicing psychiatrist. Jack Crawford, forced to utilize trainees in his search for the vicious killer 'Buffalo Bill', sends Clarice Starling to follow up on a minor lead concerning one of Lecter's patients. How will the relationship between Starling and Lecter unfold when there are no bars between them?  
  
  
  
  
  
"Doctor Lecter, may I speak with you?" the voice immediately intruded into his most recent foray into his memory palace. This visit was not merely a recreational expedition, but served a practical purpose. Unlike his contemporaries Hannibal Lecter did not rely solely upon written patient records. He kept rudimentary notes, maintaining the façade of a normal psychiatrist, but the real information was kept deep inside his mind, in a far room of his spacious palace. He was currently preparing for he next patient, a neurotic woman who assumed no one liked her. As far as Dr. Lecter could tell, no one did.  
  
"Doctor Lecter?" the intrusion came again. His mind had come immediately to the forefront at her first utterance, but he kept his eyes closed and practiced the meditative breathing he'd learned from his roommate at Oxford, an Indian gentleman from a long lineage of mystical men. He sensed the owner was about to speak again and his eyelids snapped open just as her mouth had begun to form the words.  
  
White trash, flashed across his mind as he took in the figure before him, trespassing in his most private office. She stood there clutching her tacky faux leather purse in a death grip, dressed in drab untailored clothing, only her shoes offering a hint of class to the pathetic ensemble. Despite her intimidated posture, her eyes regarded him with a confidence and determination he found almost overwhelming, if it were possible for him to be overwhelmed. They were also haunted and a professional curiosity grew within him to discover the source of such turmoil in one so young; she couldn't be more than 25. Perhaps he would not kill her immediately for her impertinence.  
  
She had been standing there, across from his large mahogany desk, polished to blinding sheen as he regarding her, seeming to dissect her with his oddly colored eyes. But instead of becoming more uncomfortable she seemed to collect all the energy inside herself to launch ahead. "I apologize for barging in here doctor, but it is very important that I speak with you…"  
  
"How did you get in here?" he interrupted her with his darkly musical voice.  
  
"Um, I explained to your receptionist how important it was to see you and…" she allowed the sentence to trail off.  
  
"Well now that is unfortunate, isn't it? Miss Pennyville was a loyal and valuable member of my staff, but I cannot allow such disrespect in my employ." He shook his head sadly.  
  
With eyes wide she held a hand out to him. "Please. I've tried to get in to see you all day, but she never budged. I waited until she was distracted and I snuck in here. It's not her fault."  
  
He stood so abruptly she took an involuntary step back, in spite of the four feet of expensive wood that separated them. "This is my private office. My patient's aren't even allowed in here, Miss…?"  
  
"St-starling," she stuttered. Regaining her composure she continued, "Agent Starling. I'm with the FBI." Dr. Lecter made a sharp turn to the left and proceeded to walk around the immense desk. She watched with apprehension as the sleek figure came towards her. He was quick as a viper, his movements economical and graceful in equal measures.  
  
"Let me see your credentials, Agent," he whispered to her, delighted to see her discomfort. He could see her throat working spasmodically as she dug around her bag. Finding what she was looking for, she removed a square leather billfold the size of a credit card. With shaking hands she opened it up and held it in his general direction. "I'm afraid my eyesight isn't what it used to be, you'll need to hold that a little closer." She blinked her confusion, but straightened her arm towards him. "Closer," he spoke in an almost singsong voice. With a look of wariness, perhaps curious as to why he did not come closer himself, she took a small step towards him. If he had wanted he could have grabbed her wrist and snapped it before she could begin to even think of a defensive maneuver. Instead he scrutinized the laminated card held under the transparent plastic. With eyes wide in disbelief he said, "This expires in a week!"  
  
"Yes, sir, it does. Technically I'm still in training…"  
  
"Training? Why would the FBI send a student to me, of all people?"  
  
"You see, sir, the Bureau is working on a very important case…"  
  
"Buffalo Bill?" he interrupted yet again. All the newspapers had carried the exploits of this particular serial killer; he'd been following them with avid interest.  
  
"Yes, sir, it is," she replied, a little disgruntled at having been interrupted repeatedly. "There is a possibility that there may be a connection between Bill and one of your patients."  
  
"One of my patients," he repeated with a hand on his chest for emphasis. "How is that possible? And that doesn't explain why the FBI sent a trainee."  
  
"All available manpower is being utilized; that means students as well. I have a background in psychology as well as criminology, that's why Mr. Crawford asked me to interview you."  
  
"Crawford? Jack Crawford in Behavioral Science?" he queried with increased interest. She nodded. "I've heard of him. With Jack on the case I'm sure they'll catch Bill in no time." He smiled and she shivered. "Please sit down, Clarice." He caught the vague twitch his use of her given name caused, just as he'd hoped. He gestured for the plush leather guest chair just to her right. She hesitated for a moment, but then sensing the accomplishment of her goal, settled herself down.  
  
Before he had a chance to question her further, the phone on his desk chirped. He excused himself and returned to the far side to answer it. Clarice took the disruption to look around at her surroundings. The office was small, but majestically appointed. Aside from the large desk, the room was furnished with a high-back executive chair for the doctor and the smaller, but no less rich, guest chair in which she now sat. Both chairs were burgundy in color to match the expensive burber carpeting and the damask drapes that covered the window behind the desk. Along one wall was a high bookshelf of the same cherry colored wood of the room's moldings and filled with a rich assortment of tomes, many with Italian or French titles. Somewhere on the shelf was a well-worn copy of the Joy of Cooking.  
  
The wall opposite the desk was covered with an arrangement of artwork that at first glance looked haphazard, but which held the viewer's eyes as it traversed each grotesque piece. To Clarice, the room looked like the remains of a battlefield – blood covering every surface – and it chilled her to the bone. Yet looking at the works of art on this wall caused an even more primal shudder. The imagines were unusually bold and violent. Clarice M. Starling, born of a West Virginian town marshal, could not fathom anyone wanting to look upon such gruesome images.  
  
"Do you like what you see, Agent Starling?" he asked her. She jumped and snapped her head back around at the sound of his voice, so melodious and steely at the same time. She hadn't been aware that he'd finished his phone conversation.  
  
"They're very interesting doctor. Do you collect art as a hobby?"  
  
"Oh I have a great many hobbies. The art gives me something to focus on as I battle the demons of other people's psyche. Gets me charged up, so to speak." He smiled and Clarice was reminded of a predator marking its prey for future assault. "As much as I would like to continue this, my 3 o'clock appointment has arrived and I mustn't dawdle. If I leave her to wait longer than 10 minutes she'll feel I'm avoiding her and will set her treatment back at least a month."  
  
He motioned for her to follow him into the outer office. This sparsely furnished room was where he actually saw patients. A small couch and two chairs, each upholstered in white, almost institutional, fabric and a glass- topped coffee table were the only appointments. The cream colored walls were filled with a variety of soothing abstract and impressionist artwork. The carpet and window treatments were a soft butter yellow. This could be the waiting room for Heaven, while the doctor's inner chamber would suit those destined for Hell.  
  
"This way, my dear," he said feeling her start as he placed a gentlemanly hand on the small of her back. He guided her to the door, but instead of escorting her out he simply turned away from her and went to his chair, picking up the clipboard from its seat before settling down. Feeling dismissed and utterly dismayed, she put her hand on the doorknob. "I would love to continue our talk at a later date," he said to her. She turned back towards him. "Tomorrow, perhaps? Are you free for lunch?"  
  
"Yes, doctor, I will be."  
  
"Good. Are you familiar with the Baxter Hills Country Club?"  
  
"I'll find it."  
  
"Twelve o'clock then, Miss Starling, and don't be late," he added with an edge. She nodded and turned back to the door. "One more thing." Her back stiffened, but she did not turn. "The club has standards for its members. You'll try not to embarrass me with your tiresome attire, hmmm? Perhaps a dress in a more feminine style. Green would be a very flattering look to contrast your auburn hair."  
  
"I'll do my best, sir," she replied through gritted teeth in her most countrified voice before opening the door and exiting.  
  
He sat pensively in her absence for a few moments savoring her with his senses – her look, her voice, her smell, all stored forever in his memory, where they would no doubt live long after she was gone. Hair like fire, voice speaking volumes about her ancestry, eyes that displayed rebellion even when the rest of her was properly submissive, this was a creature due an intensive and thorough study. Of all the people Hannibal Lecter had met in his many days on Earth, Clarice Starling could well prove the most interesting.  
  
And he already had the perfect recipe in mind for when she ceased to interest him.  
  
As reliable as a Swiss watch, Rachel Pennyville opened the door from the waiting area. "Mrs. Jacoby, doctor."  
  
"Send her in, Rachel," he responded without looking at her. He sensed her hovering about the door. "Yes, what is it?"  
  
"I just wanted to say how sorry I am that that woman was able to get in here, doctor."  
  
He looked up, giving her a most radiant and forgiving smile, quite unlike the one he'd bestowed upon Agent Starling. "Don't fret about it. You may well have done me a grand favor. Now don't keep Mrs. Jacoby waiting."  
  
With audible relief she said, "Yes doctor," and withdrew with a respectful nod. 


End file.
